


The ambassador's reception

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Series: Occasional flashes of competence [3]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, Malcolm is forced to drink a sparkling clementine drink, Unfair stereotyping of Italian women, too posh for Fanta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13006527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: His eye is caught by a couple leaving the bar. The man is a fucking mountain - six foot three at least with the heavyset build and absent neck of someone who spends most of his leisure time on the rugby field and the rest mainlining steak. Beside him is a woman in an understated green dress and a chignon who, he realises with surprise, is Nicola Murray. Looking elegant for once, and not as though she chose her outfit from the bargain bin in a fancy-dress shop.They are standing facing away from him, so Malcolm is afforded the opportunity to watch the Murrays in the wild without being seen. He's never met James Murray, but given that every interaction he has ever seen Nicola having with her husband has involved her swearing down the phone, he’s curious to observe him in the flesh.In which James Murray finally makes it to an official event and Malcolm takes it upon himself to brief the neckless wonder on his duties as a political spouse. Rated T for canon-typical language.





	The ambassador's reception

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from an iconic 1990s Ferrero Rocher advert. If you are too young or too foreign to remember, you can watch it [here](https://youtu.be/hMlP_Moo0bE). Sadly in the dog days of Cool Britannia, HM Government's budget doesn't stretch to a liveried manservant passing round a mound of gold-wrapped hazelnut chocolates to impress foreign dignitaries. If it did, maybe none of this would have happened.

Malcolm doesn’t drink at formal events. He prefers to keep a clear head for when things inevitably go to shit and he has to bribe a journalist, or pin some limp dick junior MP’s balls to the wall. Tonight’s event – a drinks reception to mark the visit of the Italian agricultural minister – should be fairly low key. It’s difficult to imagine anyone getting too worked up about the olive harvest or pasta production. There is, however, the ever-present possibility that one of HM’s cretins will use the occasion to make an indiscrete comment within earshot of a journalist or express a long held and stomach-turning passion for a colleague. 

One of the halls in the Palace of Westminster has been repurposed as a venue for the occasion. This has the twin virtues of saving the cost of hiring a venue and being very impressive in an overblown, Victorian-gothic way. Between the white gloved waiters and the ornate wooden panelling, it's one tray of Ferrero Rocher away from a political fairy tale. It’s also fucking freezing and he can’t get a proper mobile phone signal.

Malcolm rises above this. Fifty MPs mingling with a group of foreign diplomats, party donors and union representatives will provide plenty to keep him busy in the absence of his Crackberry. He leans against one of the free-standing tables near the makeshift bar, surveying the room while he nurses a glass of the artisan sparkling clementine drink that the barman offered him when he asked for a Fanta. Stationed here he’s within arm’s reach of the main entrance, making it a perfect spot to intercept trouble makers.

His eye is caught by a couple leaving the bar. The man is a fucking mountain - six foot three at least with the heavyset build and absent neck of someone who spends most of his leisure time on the rugby field and the rest mainlining steak. Beside him is a woman in an understated green dress and a chignon who, he realises with surprise, is Nicola Murray. Looking elegant for once, and not as though she chose her outfit from the bargain bin in a fancy-dress shop.

They are standing facing away from him, so Malcolm is afforded the opportunity to watch the Murrays in the wild without being seen. He's never met James Murray, but given that every interaction he has ever seen Nicola having with her husband has involved her swearing down the phone, he’s curious to observe him in the flesh. 

“Where’s Tom? I want to have a drink with him.”

“You mean you want to have your  _photo_  taken having a drink with him. He’s a bit busy talking to the trade delegation, James.” Even by her standards Nicola looks tense. The boat neckline of her dress affords Malcolm a clear view of the rigid tendons in her neck.

“That’s not going to take all night.”

Nicola’s voice is tight with impatience. “He’s _working_. If you want to spend time with Tom you should come to the Party events, but you always seem to be too busy at the rugby club or polishing your fucking golf clubs.”

James heaves a theatrical sigh. This is evidently a variation on a much-discussed theme. “Even you’ve got to admit those Party events are fucking boring. I can’t stand another evening having my ear talked off by some Marxist bore who thinks that earning a decent salary is a crime. I got enough of that when you were standing for Parliament.”

 “You only came to two events when I was running!” scoffs Nicola. “One of the volunteers actually thought I was a widow!”

They sink into silence in which Nicola fidgets with her drink and James appears to be watching a pair of rather attractive aides from the Italian delegation, all platform heels and skin-tight bandage dresses.

“Why can’t you wear something a bit more like that, Nicky?” James asks in a horribly indiscrete stage whisper.

Nicola’s voice mirrors the disgust Malcolm feels at this comment. “I’m a cabinet minister, not a fucking nightclub hostess.”

“You should give it a try. It might broaden your electoral appeal.”

 “I can do without the pervert vote, thank you.”

 “You’re no fun any more.” His hand creeps down to cup Nicola’s arse and she jerks away sharply.

 “James, stop it!”

Malcolm feels an unaccountable lurch in his stomach - the after-effects of the clementine concoction perhaps? He decides to intervene before they start drawing attention to themselves. He places his drink down and moves to greet them. 

“Nic’la, yer looking lovely this evening. Very sophisticated.” He leans in to kiss her lightly on the cheek, drawing a look of horrified confusion from Nicola.

“And this must be the lesser spotted James Murray,” he adds, extending a hand to James. From the front he is good looking in a bland, upper middle class way - sandy blonde hair in an unfashionably long style, pale blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. “I was beginning to wonder whether yeh really exist. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” says James, taking his hand with an inane smile that most closely resembles a pig grubbing for scraps.

Malcolm stares him dead in the eye. "Absolutely none of it."

 James grins, evidently not believing that his response could be anything other than a joke. 

They shake hands. “That’s a strong wrist ye’ve got there, James. Gets lots of exercise does it?”

James' grin fades as he registers that he has been insulted not once but twice in quick succession. Malcolm smiles in a manner that he knows causes most of the Party's 355 sitting MPs to shit themselves. Except Nicola, which is only to be expected given that she has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. And James Murray, because he's an idiot.

Nicola places a hand on her husband's forearm. “Malcolm, I need to go over and speak to Mike from Environment and Agriculture. I promised that I’d give him a breakdown of the seasonal worker stats in the immigration figures.”

“Good idea. It’s on the agenda for tomorrow’s talks. We don’t want the Italians realising that Mikey doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.” He places a blokey arm around James’ shoulder and says to him “Never off duty, is she? My job wouldnae be half as difficult if we had more like Nic'la in the cabinet."  

Nicola's eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline, but James is still too busy casting sideways glances at the Italian aides to notice his wife's reaction.  "While Nic’la talks shop why don’t we head to the bar James? I don’t have a drink and you're nearly done wi' that pint.”

Nicola’s glare turns to a scowl. She had obviously been trying to separate Malcolm and her husband, not allow Malcolm unsupervised access. "Fine," she huffs. "I won't be long. Behave.  _Both of you_." 

She leaves with an angry flounce and Malcolm guides James towards the bar. "So James, how's business?"

"Ah not bad. Busy." he replies, finally turning to look at Malcolm now that the Italian women have moved out of his eyeline.

"You must be. Nic'la's been in cabinet wha' - four or five months now? Normally I already would've bumped into a minster's wife - or husband - at one of these events by now."

"You know how it is - travel, long hours, entertaining clients. They keep my days pretty full."

He nods sympathetically. "Aye, well my long hours are generally filled with mopping up shit and fisting journalists, but I can imagine." The barman comes to serve them and Malcolm gestures to James to order first. "What'll yeh have?"

"A Peroni - given that Italy is the theme of the evening."

"How appropriate. We'll make a political wife of you yet." Malcolm nods at the barman. "A Peroni for my friend here and I'll have one of those fizzy orange things." The barman moves away to fill their orders. "And how are the kids? How's Ella getting on at school? And wee Josh - is he over his bug now?"

James straightens up, adjusting the lapels of his lounge suit. "Ah yes. Very well. They're both very well. They're  _all_  very well in fact."

Malcolm would only have had to have listened to 2% of the verbal diahhrea that Nicola emitted on a daily basis to know that this is not true. Josh latest illness had lingered for so long that Nicola had taken him to an emergency appointment with the GP earlier in the week, which resulted in Josh receiving a course of antibiotics and Nicola being thoroughly bollocked for missing the first half of a cabinet meeting. Ella was now, apparently, the _targe_ _t_  of bullying rather than the instigator, and Katie was in the midst of a very messy break up from her boyfriend of four months. Only the youngest girl - who so seldom does anything noteworthy that Malcolm doesn't even know her name - appeared to be without drama. James is either playing it cool or he doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on with his own children.

The barman returns with their drinks and Malcolm hands James his pint before picking up his own drink. "So," says James conspiratorially after taking a sip of his drink. "How's Nicky getting on?" 

"Oh aye, very well."

James leans closer, lowering his voice. "You don't have to humour me Malcolm, I know what she's like."

Malcolm stares at him blankly. "What she's like? How do you mean?"

He chuckles. "Well I certainly never had her down for the cabinet. I was surprised she even got elected - I just encouraged her to stand to stop her bloody wittering on about it all the time."

Malcolm has to force his fists to unclench at the dismissive tone with which James Murray discusses his wife. "Aye well, she was a wee bit shaky to start with but she's hit her stride now. The soft launch of Healthy Choices went off without a hitch and her speech at the party conference was one of the strongest. Didn't yeh think so?"

James shifts, his eyes darting away from Malcolm. "Ah, I suppose so. Yes."

"I particularly liked the section about redefining inclusivity. It's a pretty difficult concept for some of the fossils in the party to get their heads around but she broke it down well."

"Yes. Yes of course."

Nicola's speech had made no reference to "redefining inclusivity" - whatever the fuck that even meant. As Malcolm suspected, James hadn't even watched it on TV. Or on demand. Or caught the highlights on fucking Newsnight. Why would he? It was only his wife's inaugural speech to her party as a minister - possibly the most high-profile speaking engagement she had made since being appointed. "And look at her now," he went on, gesturing across the room to where Nicola was speaking to Mike from Environment and one of the junior ministers from the Italian delegation. "Saving Mike's bacon with the seasonal worker stats. She's mastered her brief, as we say in Westminster."

"Really?" said James, nodding uncomfortably and taking a long draught of his beer. "Well I'm glad to hear it. Good old Nicky."

"Aye, good old Nic'la."

One of the junior spads from Education is making a beeline for them. Malcolm can't remember her real name - she was known Ginger Nob by the communications department - but she is scared shitless of him, which he considers shows good judgement. "Mr Tucker sir, sorry to interrupt but the Minister's asked if he could have a moment of your time." She glances across at James, evidently not sure how much it is appropriate to say in front of a stranger.  "Err…something's come up." She finishes lamely.

Malcolm has a strong suspicion that what has come up involves an inappropriate relationship with a male colleague which Paul had been trying to hide from Malcolm - and his wife - since January. He was very much going to enjoy ripping the useless fucker a new arsehole for this one. "Sorry James," he says with excellently feigned sincerity. "Duty calls, but you have a good evening, yeh?"

 ***

The next few hours pass in a blur. Once the Paul issue had surfaced, other skeletons started toppling out of closets like it was the Dia de los fucking Muertos. He has to cover up some extremely racist comments that one of the backbenchers has managed to drop in conversation with a journalist, blackmail a reporter from the Independent into sitting on a story about a huge data breach by Defence, and manage the ongoing saga of Siobhan from Transport’s sordid sex life.

At one point in the night Malcolm is in the lobby, trying to get a mobile phone signal so that he can make an abusive call to the editor of the Express, when Nicola passes him on her way back from the bathroom.

“What are you doing Malcolm?”

He doesn’t lift his eyes from his phone. He’s scrolling through his extensive contacts list, trying to find the number for Martin Shires from the Express. “Right at this moment I’m trying to stop details of Siobhan’s very kinky exploits at the party conference being splashed all over tomorrow’s papers.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she persists, like a mosquito that doesn’t realise it’s in imminent danger of being splattered against a wall if it doesn’t stop buzzing around.

Malcolm sighs and lowers his Blackberry. “Well you’re going to have to spell it out for me Nic’la. Your mind’s too small for me to read - I get interference from all the cotton wool it’s wrapped in.”

“There, that’s what I mean!” She jabs her finger in his vague direction as though it somehow clarifies her point.

“Ye’ve lost me. Is this going somewhere or can I get back to doing something fuckin’ important?”

“You, before. Talking to James. Telling him I was good at my job - which I know you don’t think is fucking true. And then taking him off for a private little chat at the bar. What’s going on?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. He really can’t be bothering with Nicola’s paranoia at the moment. “I like to vet all my ministers’ partners. Get a feel for how likely they are to be an absolute fuckin’ ballache. Mr Rugger Bugger wasn’t going to be very chatty if I’d just pointed out that wee Josh in a Batman costume would be a more credible than you, was he?”

“So you were softening him up so you could pump him for information?” Nicola asks sceptically.

“No, I was softening him up so I could take him outside for a quick fuck in the Commons chamber!” A passing trade unionist casts them an alarmed look as he makes his way across the lobby and Malcolm lowers his voice. “What else do you think I’d want with the waste of space, Nic’la? Or have you used up your quota of thinking for the day?”

She still looks unconvinced. “And has James passed whatever hazing test you subjected him to?”

“Passed? He’s a fuckin’ dirty bomb waiting to go off. Between your incompetence and his offensiveness to the human race it’ll be a miracle if this government lasts a full term.”

Nicola throws him her trademark sullen glare. “Well thank you for your assessment Malcolm. I’m glad to hear that my choice of husband is consistent with your low opinion of me.”

Malcolm stares at her, hefting his phone in his hand. “Is that all? I’ve got fuckin’ hydrochloric acid enemas to administer to half of Fleet Street.”

“Yes, that's all. Enjoy your foreplay.”

Malcolm mentally dismisses her, returning his attention to his phone and the threats he is going to rain down on Martin Shires.

***

It takes him another hour to disinfect the latest cluster of festering sores that his party colleagues have been incubating, and by then Malcolm well and truly needs a drink. Any further issues he will manage by glassing the offending parties and then pissing on their haemorrhaging bodies.

He orders a Scotch and leans on the bar to drink it. The crowd has thinned out now and he does a mental headcount of the remaining MPs, making sure that none of them are in imminent danger of vomiting, stripping or drunkenly disclosing confidential information in the hope of getting laid.

Nicola, for once, is not one of his problems. She is in conversation with one of the representatives from the NFU. The fucker even looks quite charmed to have the minster’s attention. Indeed she's looking quite charming this evening, if you have a thing for mumsy middle aged women.  Which Malcolm definitely does not. The green of her dress brings out her eyes and whatever she’s done to wrestle her birds nest of hair into a chignon has made it look thick and glossy. 

Snippets of their discussion float to him over the noise of the crowd: “Harvest…surface water runoff…promote biodiversity…”. Nicola punctuates her points with a genuine smile that banishes any vestige of her Glummy Mummy image. He’s noticed before that Nicola is far more comfortable - and credible - when talking to the party’s core demographic and about issues that she actually cares about, but she’s outdoing herself tonight. A little bubble of pride rises up in him. He quickly extinguishes the traitorous impulse.

Malcolm sees Nicola’s eyes flicker distractedly to something over his right shoulder. He follows her gaze to find James Murray looming lecherously over the pair of Italian aides. They are definitely not talking about the agricultural output of Sardinia. James is grinning at the taller and more busty of the women, who flicks her hair over her shoulder and smiles up at him coquettishly.

He sidles over to one of the standing tables at the edge of the room, close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation without obviously doing so. “Italian women and English women are very different,” he brays in his grating public school accent.

“Which you like better?” asks the taller Italian in heavily accented English.

“It depends. English women are better at...gardening. Italian women are more stylish. And better cooks. And better lovers.”

Malcolm almost vomits up his whisky, but Murray’s companions seem to find his comment amusing.

“Did you ever have Italian lover?” asks the other woman.

“One or two. But there’s always room for more.”

James waggles his eyebrows suggestively and the women laugh. “You ever have two lovers at once?” asks the first, shifting position subtly so that more of her cleavage peeks over the top of her already low-cut dress.

Malcolm feels a rage surge through his body that is usually reserved for only the most apocalyptic of ministerial cock ups. Abandoning his drink he marches over to the group.

“Buonasera signore. Mi scuso per l'interruzione.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him appraisingly. The women's expressions signal that a whey faced, cadaverous Scot is nowhere near as appealing as the muscular oaf they have been talking to. Like he gives a shit what a pair of brainless Italian escorts think of him.

“James, a word outside if I may?” He grips James’ arm hard enough that he wouldn’t be able to break Malcolm’s hold without causing a scene.

“Can it wait, Malcolm? I’m talking to Minister Giacometti’s advisors.”

“’Fraid not.” Malcolm marches towards the exit, leaving James very little choice but to follow along in his wake.

Malcolm retains his grip on James’ arm until he has guided him into an ante-room off the main foyer. It was once used to store members’ bowler hats and umbrellas, and now contains 100 stacking chairs in various states of moth-eaten decrepitude.

James' is face is flushed. “For heaven’s sake, are you bloody deranged?”

Malcolm pulls the door closed and turns to him with an expression that does absolutely nothing to dispel this impression. “Are  _you_  breaking yer fuckin’  _bail_  conditions?”

“What?”

“Surely yer entry on the sex offenders’ register prevents you from getting within twenty feet of any women not unfortunate enough to be married to you?”

James chuckles. “Malcolm, I have absolutely no idea—”

Malcolm steps towards James, glaring so hard that the whites show all the way around his pupils. “I  _saw_  you in there, drooling over those Italian hooker’s tits.” 

James continues to smile, evidently labouring under the misapprehension that Malcolm is blind and retarded so will accept his words at face value. “As I've already told you I was talking to some of Minister Giacometti’s advisors, discussing the differences between English and Italian culture - playing the part of the dutiful politician’s husband. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do at these things?”

“Ye'd know the drill if ye'd ever bothered to come to one before. Yer supposed to stand dutifully at yer wife’s side, laughing at her jokes and making sure her fuckin’ glass stays topped up while she does her job. Of  _running the fuckin’ country_.”

James’ expression darkens from brainless smile to low level aggression. “Has Nicky been complaining about me?”

“She doesn’t have to! Ah’ve just spent three hours in the same room as yeh.”

James squares his shoulders, colour rising in his already ruddy cheeks. “What makes you think you have the right to comment on my relationship with my wife?” he asks, leaning in in a very misjudged effort to physically intimidate him.

Malcolm takes a step towards him, his expression so alarmingly sinister that James backs up until he hits the wall. “What gives me the right is that it’s my  _job_ to make sure that this government is whiter than fuckin’ white. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but your wife is of a very fuckin’  _nervous_  disposition. So if I suspect that anything is causing her so much as mild distraction, I smother it like a fuckin’ disabled kitten so that she can focus on doing her job.”

James’ voice swells with indignation. “How dare you!?”

“How dare _I_? What do you think it would look like to the roving reporter from the fuckin’ Independent out there if he saw you arranging a threesome with a pair of Italian escorts? Do yeh think  _Tom_  would be sympathetic? The man’s a Calvinist: he only sleeps with his fuckin’  _wife_  if he’s sure that neither of them will enjoy it. Let me tell you what you are to this Party:  _expendable_. You put so much as a toenail out of line and you will find yourself fed to the circling wolves so quickly that ye’ll still be conscious to watch them rip out yer fucking heart and tear it to pieces.”

James visibly deflates, his public school swagger diminishing. It’s not the most severe bollocking Malcolm’s ever administered, but it’s been a long night and he seems to have made an impression. “Do I have to go on, or have I made my point?”

He nods. “You’ve made your feelings very clear.” Malcolm’s pleased to note that his voice is higher than it was when they began their discussion.

“Good. Now you get out there, you find Nic’la and you don’t leave her side for the rest of the fuckin’ night.”

Malcolm doesn’t budge an inch, forcing James to slide past him in order to get to the door. Malcolm takes a few moments to enjoy the blessed peace of the cupboard before going back to the hall for what he fervently hopes are the death throes of the reception. 

His abandoned whisky glass has been cleared up by an overzealous waiter so he orders another. James Murray, he is pleased to note, is handing Nicola a glass of champagne and smiling obsequiously at something she is saying to an Italian economist. 

For reasons he prefers not to examine too closely, Malcolm feels protective of Nicola Murray. She’s a fucking thorn in his side and her will tell her so in extensive detail whenever she inevitably fucks up. And sometimes when she hasn’t actually fucked up yet, as a form of prophylaxis. But he feels a proprietorial outrage when he sees others exploiting her obvious weaknesses. Even her fucking knob of a husband.  _Especially_  her fucking knob of a husband.

Nicola seems to feel his gaze on her and glances over to him. He raises his glass in her direction, unleashing his most sinister grin, and Nicola hurriedly averts her eyes. Malcolm nods to himself in satisfaction. Maybe she’s not completely untrainable after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third work in the 'Occasional flashes of competence' series and there are at least two more to come. The stories are sequential, so you'll see elements that occur in the early stories being referred back to in subsequent works. All should be capable of standing alone though.


End file.
